Vaile*
Bluelighter
Not sure what possessed me to write this. In fact, I can't exactly remember what it was about. But upon finding and rereading it after sometime, the tone was too familiar to ignore. Like so many impressionable kids before me, I had realised I had read, watched and absorbed too much Hunter S. Thompson.
So here it is; my last great big 'fuck you' of admiration to the creator of Gonzo journalism.
THE EDUCATION,
being driven like a rabid dog with a cane swinging monarchist at it's heels, harping on the noble cause.
But now, somewhere along the line, these bastards got serious! You can see it in their eyes, all 167 of them.
The sight sends a clear picture;
they're going down. The time is up.
They're playing the critical round with nothing
but a pair of twos and a sweat stained handkerchief,
fondling a loaded Smith & Wesson hidden away in their right crotch pockets, with cross-hatched credentials for ammunition.
Haven't you noticed yet? We're in the God-damn firing line!!!
And some unlucky fool is going to call!
Get off your books damn it...
and thank Jesus that these bowler hat psychotics
haven't found the mark. By God, they're swinging that cane with the personal affect of a wired Charles Manson taking a savage beating and laughing all the way.
But don't be fooled, they'll cripple you for the rest of your unnatural life. It'll take one misplaced twitch of a finger to be looking down that snubbed barrel. You'll recognise that smoking muzzle with sparkling acuity; exuding a foul and seedy combination of deflated esteem, former glory, and essential omega-3 oils.
.
.
.
.
Jesus... What's happening here?
So here it is; my last great big 'fuck you' of admiration to the creator of Gonzo journalism.
THE EDUCATION,
being driven like a rabid dog with a cane swinging monarchist at it's heels, harping on the noble cause.
But now, somewhere along the line, these bastards got serious! You can see it in their eyes, all 167 of them.
The sight sends a clear picture;
they're going down. The time is up.
They're playing the critical round with nothing
but a pair of twos and a sweat stained handkerchief,
fondling a loaded Smith & Wesson hidden away in their right crotch pockets, with cross-hatched credentials for ammunition.
Haven't you noticed yet? We're in the God-damn firing line!!!
And some unlucky fool is going to call!
Get off your books damn it...
and thank Jesus that these bowler hat psychotics
haven't found the mark. By God, they're swinging that cane with the personal affect of a wired Charles Manson taking a savage beating and laughing all the way.
But don't be fooled, they'll cripple you for the rest of your unnatural life. It'll take one misplaced twitch of a finger to be looking down that snubbed barrel. You'll recognise that smoking muzzle with sparkling acuity; exuding a foul and seedy combination of deflated esteem, former glory, and essential omega-3 oils.
.
.
.
.
Jesus... What's happening here?
